There you are minding your own rage when whoosh you are hooked. Wrenched. Apprehended. By the door handle on your sleeve. Maybe you are carrying a hot coffee that goes EVERYWHERE. Maybe there’s the sound of a terrible rip that could be your soul detaching from your body but also might be an irrevocable tear in the fabric of your sweater. Maybe you are in a hurry because you just spent the last 30 minutes staring at the wall. Physical and emotional whiplash. Doesn’t help the situation.
The toe stub is the physical manifestation of the internal anguish you are feeling at the moment in which you do it. The howl of pain is existential. At that moment there’s nothing like it.
Something about rage rigidity means your body is no longer the fluid (ha), athletic (ha), articulate bamboo tree but rather a brittle twig just waiting to snap. One false step, jostle, move and crack. Neck/back/fucked.
What is it about bronzers? You’ve barely used it, you are close to perfecting that gentle glow on your cheekbones, you look dulcet as opposed to grey and mottled for the first time in months and then one negative thought and SMASH. It shatters into a trillion tiny unusable incredibly expensive pieces. Maybe you cry. Oh, hello blotchy cheeks. They will help the mood.
The space invaders
For love or money. Or swearing. Or loitering, you cannot find a parking space. You even try the murdery car park but it is full. Full of cunts. You are so hardened with road rage you think about abandoning the car. Or driving it onto the pavement come what may. Incidentally the traffic is also building up. More cunts. You are in no way able to calm down. When you miss a spot you consider getting out and killing the other driver. Or just keying their car. You don’t. Or do you?
The lost ones
You cannot find anything. ANYTHING. Not your keys, not your glasses, not your card, not your bag, not your mind, not your patience, not your sanity, not your forgiveness.
The wrong stuff
You put salt in your coffee. Veet in your hair. A hair mask on your face, hairspray under your arms, Anusol under your eyes (actually you might have meant to do that). Jesus wept. You wept.
The happiness arseholes
There they are, so oppressively happy. Happy shiny happy. Did we say happy people. Ones that you don’t know very well. So happy. Why are they so happy? Arseholes. And now you have to pretend not to be incredibly unpleasant. ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE?